fleeting
by erialfinal
Summary: A glimpse at the morning life of one Yamamoto Takeshi and Hibari Kyouya. 8018  YamaHiba; a couple of swear words, nothing major.


Not a pairing that I usually do, but I felt that it suited these two the best. Probably inspired by andreaphobia over at lj, now that I think about it.

If it's rambly and disjointed, then I blame inspiration striking at three in the morning, then looking over it the next day (ie. today) and going 'what the fuck was I thinking.' It's also my first time writing Yamamoto as a central character (I still don't count _All for the Family_), so I apologize in advance if he's OOC in any way, shape or form.  
>This is probably set TYL, or halfway between canon point and TYL.<br>Disclaimer: I do not own anything that this piece of work mentions. The poem extract belongs to Richard Siken, and the characters belong to Amano Akira.

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><p><strong>fleeting<strong>

_"… we're inconsolable.  
>Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.<br>These, our bodies, possessed by light.  
>Tell me we'll never get used to it."<em>  
><em> -Scheherazade, Richard Siken<em>

It's one of the scenes you can never forget, sunrise slicing across pale skin and casting shadows where his hair gets in the way. You trace a finger, whisper soft, over his back and he lashes out at you (you dodge with practised ease, of course, laughing freely). The first time you had tried that he had sent you to the hospital for a good three months. An adorable (not that you would ever say that out loud, not unless you wanted to have your own spinal cord ripped out of your back and used to strangle you) little grumble escapes from him, and you lean over and brush a seemingly unwanted kiss against his shoulder. He kicks at you and pulls away, taking the rest of the blankets with him.

"Make breakfast," he commands, as if he's some king and you're his lowly servant. But you're only too happy to comply, padding out of the bedroom towards the kitchen. There's a muted happiness in you; this could be the good life. You have your baseball, a Family to protect and serve, and someone that you love and you're sure he loves you back, even though he doesn't say it out loud.

He's got his own special way of doing things; never saying, just doing. Actions speak louder than words, after all. It's things like him following you to the baseball field and watching you and Jirou play ball while he sits on the lonely bleachers and peers down at you like a king holding court over his subjects. It's things like finding one-liner notes all around the place, written in his perfect handwriting, the letters crawling across the paper in one neat line, reminding you to do something that no doubt you would've forgotten about if not for his curt reminders. You love the way he's in tune with you, how the two of you can synchronise with each other so perfectly.

But then again he's the only person that can break your heart just like that, with that careless, beautiful,_ I-don't-give-a-fuck_grace that only he has. He'll pull the trigger that'll put a bullet in your head without blinking, he'll crush your heart without faltering once, all because he was bored and you were too weak. And that's what you love about him. He's gorgeous, deadly, _unpredictable_; you may be lovers one day, he might be trying to kill you the next, but damn if that doesn't make you love him even more. He's an addiction, a drug, and you're only too happy to fall for him further, even though you know that it's dangerous and you might get killed (_bitten to death_). But so be it, because dying by the hands of the one you love is better than anything else, right?

The shrill whistle of the kettle breaks into your thoughts, and you turn and smile at him (you know he's been there for a while now, watching you). He's standing in the doorway of the kitchen, only wearing a too-large shirt of yours, draped over his shoulders and all the buttons in the wrong holes, to give a mockery of modesty. But he's not embarrassed, because he's Hibari Kyouya and Hibari Kyouya does not get embarrassed by anything ever.

You anticipate his next demand. He never asks, it's always a demand. But you've learned to read his moods, can tell what he's thinking, and once again you marvel silently at how the two of you are so in tune with each other.

"Tea. Now." That only makes your grin stretch and you duck your head and turn back to the kettle to pour the water into the already waiting cup that you'd placed out, beside your own. He's got his tea, you've got your coffee, and you've never been happier.

_end._


End file.
